Heaven's Net Is Wide

40

Shigeru made the return journey in a state of exhaus-tion yet buoyed up by emotions of hope and happiness that a week before would have seemed forever beyond his grasp. He knew in the uncertainty and violence of their world that they might never set eyes on each other again, yet what existed between them was eternal. It could never be taken from him. He felt again her head in his hands, the silky touch of her hair, and heard her voice-Take. Drink-and saw her face light up with laughter.

The weather continued to be changeable, with sudden drenching showers and gusts of wind tearing the leaves from the branches and massing them in drifts at the foot of the trees. As the leaves fell, the forest opened up, the bare branches glistening in the soft autumn light. Several times he saw deer on the track ahead, their black scuts quivering as they plunged away from him, and at night the lonely cry of geese flying overhead echoed through the damp air. But for him the autumn wind did not sing of love grown cold but of a love new and robust, one that would never be extinguished while he lived. He did not know when they would meet again, but now they were allies, more than allies: they were bound together. He waited for her to send another message to him.

SHE WROTE ONCE before winter, the letter arriving in the same way, concealed in more of Eijiro’s writings. The letter was unsigned: one might have thought it a copy of a tale, for it read like a fragment of a ghost story, set in an isolated temple in the rain: a warrior bewitched by love, a spirit woman who seduced him. It was written with lightness and humor: he could almost hear his spirit woman laugh.

Then the year turned; the snows came and the city of Hagi was shut off from the rest of the Three Countries.

During the long winter months, when snow was piled high in the garden and icicles hung from the eaves like rows of white radishes, the unyielding harvest of winter, Shigeru often took out the letter and read it, recalling the isolated temple, the rain, her voice, her hair.

Sometimes he could not believe what had happened, that they had dared to take what they both so deeply desired, and he was amazed by her courage and grateful to her beyond words. Her risk was greater than his, for he had nothing that tied him to this world beyond her and his intentions of revenge, whereas she had a daughter and a domain to lose.

At other times their love for each other seemed so natural and preordained that he could see no danger in it. He felt they were invulnerable, protected by fate itself.

So when Naomi wrote in the spring, her letter concealed inside a package from Eijiro’s widow containing samples of sesame seed for the first experimental plantings, telling him that she would be at a place called Katte Jinja on the northern coast of Maruyama at the full moon of the fourth month, Shigeru did not hesitate to make arrangements to go traveling again.

Over the last year he had become almost as interested in fishing as in farming, for it was from the sea that Hagi gained most of its food and its wealth. The families of fishermen had their own hierarchies, loyalties, and codes, and, Shigeru knew, these often brought them into conflict with his uncles in the castle, who saw their rich, bountiful catches as a source of no less bountiful tax. Shigeru was particularly well acquainted with Terada Fumimasa, a thickset, immensely strong, and endlessly shrewd man who ran his own fleet, and the port in general, with affable but unchallenged tyranny. He had, it was rumored, fathered half the young fishermen in Hagi but had one legitimate son, Fumio, a boy the same age as Miyoshi Gemba, who at eight years old already accompanied his father on all his voyages.

Terada had from time to time invited Shigeru to join them. Shigeru had never taken him up on it, but now a plan began to form in his mind. Terada lived near the port on the slopes of Fire Mountain. In the last year, Shigeru had often walked here, visiting the place where Akane had died, taking pleasure in the exotic gardens the old priest had created. He had made sure the gardens were not neglected after the old man’s death. It had been a way to deal with his grief and anger at Akane, as well, he thought, as preserving a memorial to her beauty and vivacity. Many young men and women came here to pray to Akane’s spirit to help them in all matters of the heart, and Shigeru half-consciously joined his prayers to theirs.

On this day in late spring, when the cherry blossom was at its peak, and the lusher scents of orange blossom also filled the air along with many perfumes of strange flowers that he could not identify, the shrine on Fire Mountain was thronged with people, all no doubt feeling like him the tug of spring in their blood, the longing for love, the desire for the beloved’s body, the craving to lie down together and make new life.

He thought Terada would be home, for he had seen his ship in the port, getting ready to set sail on the next day’s tide. Shigeru knew he had been recognized by many in the crowd: he had been aware of their respect and delight, and someone must have informed Terada, for the man himself came out to his gate and warmly invited him to step inside.

“Lord Shigeru! What an unexpected pleasure, and a great honor, if I may be so indiscreet.” He made no attempt to lower his voice, clearly believing he could do and say as he liked in his own home. No one would dare report any of his words to the Otori lords; their families would have felt Terada’s punishment before such words left the mouth.

Terada issued several barking commands. Maids brought tea, wine, and morsels of raw fish just sliced from the living creature, still quivering, melting in the mouth with the salty essence of the sea itself. They talked about the moon and tides, the weather and the season, and then Shigeru said idly, looking out over the bay toward the other volcano, “I suppose Oshima is very different from Fire Mountain.”

“Has Lord Shigeru never been there?”

Shigeru shook his head. “I have always wanted to.”

“Fire Mountain is said to be more stable. Oshima is very unpredictable. No one would dare build a house like this next to the volcano there-though I have been tempted from time to time, especially when the castle tries to extract more and more money from us.”

Terada filled Shigeru’s bowl again and then drained his own. Shigeru made no reply and did not allow his bland expression to change. They spoke of other matters, but as Shigeru was leaving, Terada said, “There is nothing to prevent us from dropping by Oshima this week. Why don’t you come with us?”

“I would be delighted,” Shigeru said, giving his customary frank smile.

“Meet us at the harbor tomorrow night. We will be away about a week.”

Shigeru went home and made the necessary preparations for the journey, informed his mother and Ichiro, and wrote a brief letter to his uncles, which he instructed Ichiro to deliver after his departure. He said nothing about extending his journey as far as the Maruyama shoreline, but the following evening, as Terada’s ship sped across the waves, helped by the tide and the southeast wind, he asked the older man, “Do you ever put in on the coast of Maruyama?”

“Occasionally we stop at Ohama, when the wind swings to the north and we can’t get back to Hagi. Why? Did you want to go there?”

Shigeru did not reply immediately. Terada gestured to him to come a little closer.

“I have no secrets from any of my men,” he said quietly. “But you may have things you prefer the whole ship does not hear, and I respect that. If you want to go to Maruyama, I’ll make sure you get there, and I’ll ask no questions about your reasons, or allow anyone else to.”

“You say the northerly keeps you from returning to Hagi,” Shigeru said. “If you took me to Katte Jinja, might it keep me there for a few days?”

“It will if I tell it to,” Terada replied, grinning. “It suits us as well. We’ll put into Oshima and fish the sea between the island and the coast. We can come back for you whenever you desire.”

The light was fading and the full moon was rising. Shigeru gazed at the path it made across the waves toward the west and imagined walking its length to where she waited for him.

The fishing boats came to Oshima just before dawn and hove to in the lee of the cliffs, waiting for daybreak. The breeze dropped; the sea was calm, lapping gently against the basalt rocks, so quiet that they could clearly hear the awakening birds on land.

The sun rose, a bright red sphere emerging from the unruffled ocean.

“It will be fair weather for a week,” Terada said, looking up at the cloudless skies, shading his eyes with his arm.

“Good for traveling,” Shigeru agreed, trying to mask his impatience with indifferent calm.

The men put out oars and rowed the boats into the rock-rimmed harbor. From a distance it seemed to be a natural basin, but when they had anchored and leaped ashore, Shigeru realized that nature had been improved by carefully hewn stones placed to form a landing quay. The opposite side had been similarly built up into a protective wall.

Above their heads, the sides of the volcano rose steeply; the black rocks and old lava stood out between the forest that sought to cover them. Smoke and steam rose from the crater and from the numerous hot springs at the volcano’s foot, even from the surface of the sea itself, where boiling water burst through cracks in the ocean floor.

“Come, I’ll show you around,” Terada said, and leaving the men to prepare the nets and baskets, they scrambled over the rocks and followed a rough track up the side of the mountain.

“Does no one live here?” Shigeru asked, looking around, when they paused for breath about halfway up. He raised his eyes and looked toward the coast. Hagi lay to the east, lost in the haze.

“It’s known as the entrance to hell,” Terada replied. “I like to encourage that reputation. The fewer people who come here, the better. Do you want to bathe? Take care, the water is scalding.”

They both stripped off, and Shigeru slid carefully into the pool, his skin turning red instantly. Terada could not help grunting as the water hit his powerful frame.

They sat half submerged for a few moments without speaking; then Terada said, “You weren’t wounded in the battle?”

“Just a cut in the scalp. It’s healed now, my hair covers it.”

“Unh.” Terada grunted again. “Forgive me-and shut me up if I’m speaking out of turn-but you will not always be so retiring and so patient?”

“Indeed I will,” Shigeru replied. “I have withdrawn from power and politics. I am interested only in my house and lands.”

Terada was gazing at him searchingly. “I know this is what people say, but there are still many who hope secretly…”

Shigeru interrupted him. “Their hope is futile, and so is our discussing it.”

“But this journey?” Terada persisted.

“It is of a religious nature,” Shigeru replied, allowing an earnest note to creep into his voice. “I have been told of strange visions and apparitions at this shrine. I will spend a few nights alone there and see if anything is revealed to me. Apart from that, I am interested in your work, your knowledge of the sea and its creatures, as well as the opinions and welfare of your men. And I like traveling.”

“You don’t have to worry about my men,” Terada replied. “They do what I tell them, and I look after them!” He chuckled and gestured to the land around the pool. “This is where I would build my house if I lived on Oshima. You can see all the way to Hagi, and no one would ever draw you out.”

“Is this your island, then?”

“If I am the only one who dares to come to Oshima, then it belongs to me,” Terada said. “It’s my bolt-hole. If your uncles get too greedy, I’ll not stay in Hagi and pay for their luxuries.” He glanced at Shigeru and muttered, “You can tell them that, I don’t care, but I’ll not tell them your secrets.”

“I will speak to them about the fairness of the taxation system,” Shigeru said. “To be frank, it has already concerned me. But your other secrets are safe with me.”

When they had dressed again and descended to the quay, the men had lit fires and prepared food. By midday they were again aboard; Terada had cushions placed on the high deck in the stern, and Shigeru reclined on these, half dozing, as the flowing tide carried the vessel toward the coast, the sail flapping in the breeze, the charms and amulets tinkling on the mast, the messenger pigeons cooing gently in their bamboo baskets.

Terada’s son came and sat beside him with one of the tortoise-shell-colored cats that sailors believe bring good luck, showed him how to tie knots for nets with a piece of resined cord, and related stories about kindly dragons and magic fish, every now and then leaping to his feet when he spied a flock of seabirds or a school of fish. He was an attractive boy, plumpish, robust, very like his father.

The sun was low in the sky by the time they came to shore. Its light turned rocks and sand golden. They had seen no boats out at sea, but here, close to the coast, several tiny craft were bobbing in the water. The fishermen seemed both hostile and afraid at the sight of Terada’s ship, and Shigeru suspected some earlier encounter might have turned violent.

“This is where Katte Jinja is,”Terada said, pointing toward the shore, where the shrine’s roof could be seen between twisted pine trunks. “You don’t have to worry about these people; they won’t hurt you.”

There was something more than the usual scorn in his voice, and Shigeru raised his eyebrows.

“They are Hidden,” Terada explained. “So they will not kill, not even to defend themselves. You will find them interesting, no doubt.”

“Indeed,” Shigeru said. “I might even question them about their beliefs.”

“They will tell you nothing,” Terada said. “They will die rather than disclose or forswear them. How long will you stay?” he questioned as his men prepared to lower Shigeru over the side into the thigh-deep water.

For the rest of my life, he wanted to reply, but instead said vaguely, “I suppose three nights of apparitions will be enough.”

“Three nights too many, if you ask me.” Terada laughed. “Expect us at this time four days hence.”

The sailors gave him a basket of rice cakes and salted fish, and Shigeru took his own bundle of clothes, holding these over his head, along with Jato, as he waded ashore.

At the top of the beach were a few hovels; women and children sat outside them, tending fires around which small fish were drying on bamboo racks. They stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads without speaking as Shigeru walked past. He glanced at them, noting that the children, though thin, looked healthy enough, and that several of the women were young and not ill-looking. They all looked tense, ready to bolt, and he thought he could guess the reason-the presence of Terada’s predatory, unprincipled men. No doubt, missing their own women, the sailors took these, knowing their husbands would not fight to defend them. He resolved to speak to Terada about it. These were her people. It was wrong that men from his clan should prey on them.

Like Seisenji, the shrine seemed abandoned, neglected. He could hear a bullfrog in the shrine garden. It was evening now, the last rays of the sun spilling onto the verandas of the old wooden buildings, casting shadows from every knot and irregularity of roof and floor. There were the horses, tethered in one of the outbuildings; the same mare, the same packhorse. His heart leaped suddenly with the realization, only half believed till this moment, that she was here, that he would hold her, hear her voice, smell her hair. All the pent-up desire and longing of the past six months rose like a flame within him.

His senses seemed unnaturally acute, as though one layer of skin had been stripped from him. He could already smell her perfume and the female scent that lay beneath it.

He called softly, “Is anyone there?” His voice sounded like a stranger’s to his own ears.

The young man, Bunta, came round the side of the building, saw Shigeru and stopped, looking momentarily startled, before dropping to one knee and bowing.

“Lord-” he said, cutting his speech off before he uttered Shigeru’s name.

Shigeru nodded to him, saying nothing.

“The ladies are in the garden,” Bunta said. “I will tell my lady that a visitor is here.”

“I will go to her,” Shigeru replied. Despite Bunta’s discretion, the man made him uneasy. He could so easily be a spy from the Tribe, could so easily betray them. Yet at that moment Shigeru knew that nothing, no threat of death or torture to himself or to anyone he loved, would stop him from going to her.

I am bewitched, he thought as he walked swiftly round to the back of the shrine, remembering the tale she had written for him. The garden was overgrown and untended, the spring grass tall and green, studded with wild flowers. The cherry blossom was just past its peak, the ground covered in drifts of white and pink petals, like a reflection of the flowers that still clung to the branches.

Lady Maruyama and Sachie sat on cushions placed on stones around the pool. It was clogged with lily pads and lotus leaves, and one or two deep purple early irises bloomed at its edge.

She looked up at the sound of his footfall, and their eyes met. He saw all color drain from her face and her eyes go lustrous, as though the sight of him were a physical blow. He felt the same; he could barely breathe.

Sachie whispered something and Naomi nodded, her eyes never leaving Shigeru’s face. Sachie stood, bobbed her head to Shigeru, and disappeared into the shrine.

They were alone. He went and sat beside her, in Sachie’s place. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair and over the nape of her neck. They stayed like that for a long time, neither of them speaking, listening to each other’s breath and heartbeat.

The sun set and the air began to cool. Naomi drew back and gazed into his eyes.

“Just before you came, a heron alighted at the edge of the pool. Sachie and I agreed it was a sign that you would soon be here. If you had not come tonight, I would have left tomorrow. How long can you stay?”

“Some fishermen from Hagi brought me. They will return in four days.”

“Four days!” Her face lit up even more. “It is an eternity!”

MUCH LATER HE WOKE, hearing the surge of the sea on the shingle and the noises of the night from the grove around them. He heard the horses stamp as they shifted their weight. Naomi was also awake; he saw the moonlight that drenched the garden glint on the surface of her eyes. They watched each other for a few moments; then Shigeru said quietly, “Where were your thoughts?”

“You will laugh at me,” she replied. “I was thinking of Lady Tora of Oiso, drowning in love.”

She referred to the well-known tale of the Soga brothers, their revenge and the women who loved them.

“Juro Sukenari waited eighteen years for his revenge, did he not? I will wait as long, if that is what it takes,” Shigeru whispered.

“Yet Juro died-his life fading with the dew of the fields,” Naomi replied, quoting from the ballad that was popular with blind singers. “I cannot bear the thought of your death.”

He took her in his arms then. Death had never seemed so distant or life so desirable. Yet she was trembling, and afterward she wept.

THE FOLLOWING DAY was sultry, unseasonably hot. Shigeru rose early and went to swim in the sea. When he returned, he did not dress fully but went half clothed to the back of the shrine and began the exercises he had been taught by Matsuda. Both body and mind were tired, slightly dulled, drained by the slaking of passion. He thought of the night’s brief conversation. It was only two years since his father’s death and the betrayals of Yaegahara. Was he really capable of maintaining the pretences of his present life for so many more years? And for what purpose? He could not raise an army against Iida. He would never meet him in battle, or indeed in any situation where he might come close enough to him to strike him down. He might allay Iida’s suspicions against him, but how would he make use of this? He might be a better swordsman than Iida, though even this seemed doubtful this morning when he was so tired and so slow, but he did not have the skills to surprise him, to ambush him…

To assassinate him.

The idea kept returning to him. Now he did no more than note it, bringing his mind back to concentrating on the work. After a few moments he became aware that someone was watching him. He let the movement turn him and saw Naomi beneath the trees.

“Where did you learn that?” she said, and then, “Will you teach me?”

They spent the morning going through the exercises; she showed him the way that girls were taught to fight in the West, and then they found old bamboo poles in the outbuildings and sparred with them. Her strength and speed surprised him.

“One day we will fight side by side,” she promised him when the heat forced them to stop and retreat into the shade. She was breathing hard, sweat glistening on her skin. “I have never let a man see me like this,” she said, laughing. “Other than Sugita Haruki, who taught me to fight with the sword.”

“It suits you,” he said. “You should appear like it more often.”

THE HEAT CONTINUED, and after the evening meal Naomi begged Sachie to tell a ghost story.

“It will chill our spines and cool us,” she said. Her spirits were high, her look brilliant, her happiness overflowing.

“This shrine is said to be haunted,” Sachie replied.

“Is there any that is not?” Shigeru asked, remembering Seisenji.

“Your lordship is right,” she replied, smiling slightly. “Many dark things happen in these isolated places: uneducated people are afraid of their own violent thoughts. They turn their own fears and hatreds into ghosts.”

Her insight impressed him. He saw there was more to her than he had first thought. Sachie was so quiet and self-effacing, and he had been so obsessed with Naomi that he had overlooked her intelligence, her lively imagination.

“Tell us what happened here,” Naomi said. “Ah! I am shivering already!”

Sachie began her tale in a deep, sonorous voice. “Many years ago, these shores were inhabited by evil men who made a living by luring ships onto the rocks. They killed the survivors of the shipwrecks and burned everything except what they took for themselves, so that there would be no witnesses and no evidence. Mostly their victims were fishermen, occasionally merchants, but one night they wrecked a ship carrying a lord’s daughter to her betrothal in a city in the South. She was thirteen years old; she was washed up on the beach when the ship sank and all her retinue were drowned. The cargo was of her betrothal presents: silk, gold and silver, boxes of lacquer and zelkova wood, flasks of wine. She begged them to spare her life, saying her father would reward them if they returned her to him, but they did not believe her. They cut her throat, filled her clothes with stones, and threw her body into the sea. That night, while they were celebrating their catch, they heard sounds from this shrine and saw lights. Flute music was playing, and people were singing and laughing.

“When they crept close to investigate, they saw the girl they had murdered, sitting in the center of the room, surrounded by her waiting women and her retainers. At her side was a tall lord, dressed in black, his face hidden. They thought they were concealed, but she saw them and called out, ‘Our guests are here! They must come in and join the feast!’

“The evil men turned to run away, but their legs would not obey them. The girl’s gaze pulled them in, and when they stood trembling before her, she said, ‘You betrothed me to death, and this is my marriage feast. Now my husband desires to meet you.’ And the man at her side stood; Death stared in their faces. They could not move. Drawing his sword, he killed them all, and sat down again at his wife’s side.

“The feast went on even more wildly, and the dead men’s wives said to each other, ‘Where are our husbands? They are enjoying the stolen goods without us.’ They ran to the shrine and burst in, and the girl said to them, ‘I am glad you have come. My husband desires to meet you.’ And the lord stood up and drew his sword again and killed every last woman too.”

“Did they have any children?” Naomi said. “What happened to them?”

“Their fate is not recorded,” Sachie said. “But after that, this place was uninhabited.”

“Until a gentler people came,” Naomi murmured.

“The men who brought me told me the villagers here are Hidden,” Shigeru said, equally quietly. “I believe they have suffered from these same men. I will take steps to put an end to it.”

“They are so isolated and so defenseless,” Naomi said. “We can protect them from the land-each year we conduct campaigns against bandits and outlaws in these and other remote areas of the domain-but we do not have the ships or the resources to deal with pirates.”

“They are not pirates,” Shigeru replied. “Not yet. But they are full of grievances of their own, so they prey on those weaker than themselves. I will speak to their leader and command him to keep them under control. His son told me a story,” he added. “He is a boy of about eight years old, Fumio. His father adores him and takes him everywhere with him.”

“Tell us!” Naomi said.

It was around the first half of the Hour of the Dog, night had fallen completely. There was no wind and the waves were muted. A pair of owls were calling to each other from the old cedars, and a few frogs croaked from the pool. Now and again some small creature scampered through the rafters. The flickering lights threw their shadows above them, as though the dead kept them company.

Shigeru began his story. “Once a boy went fishing with his father. A storm came up unexpectedly, and they were blown far out to sea. The father gave his son all the food and water he had, so after many days the man died, but the child lived. Finally, the boat washed up on the shores of an island, where a dragon dwelled. The child called to his father, ‘Father, wake up, we are saved!’

“But his father did not wake. The boy cried louder and louder, so loud that he woke the dragon, who came to the beach and said, ‘Your father is dead. You must bury him and I will take you home.’

“The dragon helped the boy bury his father, and afterward the boy said, ‘I cannot leave my father’s grave. Let me stay here and I will be your servant.’

“ ‘I am not sure what you can do for me,’ the dragon replied. ‘Since I am a powerful dragon and you are only a human being, and a small one at that.’

“ ‘Maybe I can keep you company,’ the boy suggested. ‘It must be lonely on this island all by yourself. And when you die, I will bury you and say prayers for you at your grave.’

“The dragon laughed, for it knew that the lifespan of a dragon far exceeds that of a human, but the boy’s words moved it. ‘Very well,’ it said. ‘You may stay here and be to me what you were to your father.’

“So the dragon brought the boy up as his son, and he became a great magician and warrior, and one day he will appear, Fumio says, and put an end to cruelty and injustice.”

“Even in stories told by children, we hear the people’s longing for justice,” Naomi said.

WHEN THEY HAD lain together the previous night, their desire had been overwhelming and uncontrollable. This night they were both more thoughtful, more aware of the risks they were taking, the madness of their actions.

“I am afraid we will make a child,” Shigeru confessed. “Not that I do not long for it…”

“I do not believe I will conceive this week,” Naomi replied. “But if I do-” She broke off, unable to voice her intention, but he knew what she meant and was filled with sorrow and anger.

After a few moments, she said, “I long to give you children. I thought of that when you spoke of Fumio. You must want so much to have a son. It may never be possible for us to marry. I feel all we can do is steal these moments, but they will be very few, with long stretches of time between them, and always so dangerous. It claws at my heart to say it, but you should marry again so that you can have children.”

“I will marry no one but you,” he said, and then, realizing the depth of his love for her, “I will lie with no one but you for the rest of my life.”

“One day you will be my husband,” she whispered. “And I will bring your children into life.”

They held each other for a long time, and when they made love, it was with a hesitant tenderness, as though they were made of some fragile material that one rough move might shatter.

SHIGERU SWAM AGAIN the following day. Naomi watched him from the shore.

“I have never learned to swim,” she said. “I do not care for boats. I suffer from seasickness and prefer to travel by land. It must be terrible to drown-it is a death I fear.”

He could see that her mood was made somber by their imminent parting, though she tried hard to conceal it. It was a little cooler, the breeze stronger, shifting to the southwest.

“It is the wind you need to blow you home,” Naomi said. “But I hate it. I wish the northerly would blow and keep you here forever.” She sighed. “Yet I must return to the city.”

“You miss your daughter?”

“Yes, I do. She is delightful at this age. She is four years old; she talks all the time and is learning to read. I wish you could see her!”

“She will be brought up in the Maruyama way,” Shigeru said, recalling Eijiro’s daughters.

“I pray she will never have to be sent away,” Naomi said. “It is my greatest fear, that Iida will feel himself strong enough to demand hostages, and Mariko will go to Inuyama.”

It was one more constraint on them. By the end of the day they were both silent. Naomi was pale and seemed almost unwell. He intended to refrain from touching her, but she threw herself against him as soon as they were alone, as though she would annihilate her fears with passion, and he could do nothing but respond. They hardly slept, and when dawn came, Naomi rose and dressed.

“We must leave early,” she said. “It is a long journey back, and anyway I cannot bear to say good-bye to you, so I must go at once.”

“When will we be able to meet again?” he asked.

“Who knows?” She turned away as the tears began to spill from her eyes. “I will arrange something, when I can, when it is safe… I will write or send a message.”

Shigeru called for Sachie, who brought tea and a little food, and Naomi regained her self-control. There was nothing they could say to each other; nothing would make the parting easier to bear. The horses were prepared, Bunta as silent as ever, the packhorse loaded with bundles and baskets. Naomi mounted the mare, Sachie and Bunta their horses, and the three rode off. Only the young man looked back at Shigeru.